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“Explain it to me.”
“My grandfather was everything to me. My father … has always been demanding, but Granddad understood my need to forge my own path. He’s the one who encouraged my dad to allow me to play hockey.” I scoff. “I bet Dad regrets that decision now.”
Amanda reaches out, her delicate hand finding mine across the table. Her touch is warm and grounding.
“I was twelve when my grandfather became ill. It was devastating for me. The last coherent night I had with him, he made me promise something. He asked me to carry on the family name, to be the one to make it succeed.” My eyes sweep up to meet hers. “And as much as I want to rebel against my father and forge my own path, breaking that promise feels like betraying my grandfather’s dying wish.”
Amanda’s eyes widen, filled with understanding and empathy. “But Blake, you can make him proud in your own way. You don’t have to sacrifice your dreams and happiness to fulfill someone else’s expectations.”
I sigh, running a hand through my tousled hair. “It’s not that simple,” I murmur, my voice laced with frustration and helplessness. “Dad has always said, ‘You don’t become king of an empire by not sacrificing and having honor.’ He expects me to maintain that honor by following in his footsteps. To take over the family business.”
“But what about your dreams? Your passion for hockey?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern.
A bitter smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “It’s always been a battle between what I want and what he wants,” I admit. “But hockey … it’s more than just a game for me. It’s my escape. My chance to prove that I’m more than just a legacy.”
“I understand why you’re conflicted,” she says softly, her green eyes filled with tenderness. “But you deserve to chase your own dreams.”
“Let’s not worry about any of that tonight,” I say as the food arrives. We’re here now, and that’s all that matters—for the moment, anyway.
* * *
We stepout of the restaurant and into the night air. I draw Amanda closer, her hand slipping into mine, the move natural.
“When do you hear about the internship?”
“Not until the second week of December.”
“Do you like your chances?”
“I do. The administrator from Memorial, who’s in charge of the internship, has a vested interest in the soup kitchen where I volunteer. I’m hoping my volunteerism gives me a leg up.”
“No wonder you’re so committed.”
“It’s a cause that’s dear to my heart. Imagine my surprise when I learned the head guy held the same beliefs.”
“What’s the administrator’s name?”
“Floyd Johnson.”
Floyd Johnson,I repeat in my head. That name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I would’ve heard of him. A strange sense of protectiveness washes over me. I want to reach out to him and tell him he’d be a fool not to pick Amanda. But even I know that wouldn’t be a good idea.
We continue walking on the sidewalk.
“Hey, serious question?” I begin. “How did you find time to work at the restaurant between your other job, classes, and volunteering?”
“Asks the man juggling practice, game schedules, classes, and his own internship,” she says, humor lacing her tone.
“Fair point.” I laugh. She’s right. I have little spare time, but I choose that. “But your classes aren’t for the faint-hearted. It’s like you have more hours in the day than the rest of us.”
Amanda shrugs, her shoulder brushing against mine. “You just make it work, right? If you want something bad enough.”
“I may know a thing or two about that.” I stopped walking and faced her, our eyes locked. The streetlight casts a halo around her dark hair, turning her into some kind of nocturnal angel—an angel busting her ass day and night. “Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes,” she admits, her gaze steady. “But it’ll be worth it in the end. It has to be.”
“Definitely will.” My words are a promise, though, for what? I’m not sure. Her dream, my dream, or maybe something we haven’t even dreamed up yet.
I close the space between us, hands finding her waist.
